


Under Ice

by Hambone



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dry Humping, M/M, Necrophilia, Religious Fanaticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23213101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: Alfred finds his way to Cainhurst, prepared to save his Master.
Relationships: Alfred/Martyr Logarius
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	Under Ice

**Author's Note:**

> Actually a very old fic I'm just cleaning up and finishing now! Alfred loves his Master so much <3 
> 
> Warning for the necrophilia being with a very not-fresh corpse. Enjoy~!

There were bodies littering the grounds of the castle. Some were bones of men, black and brittle and crunching beneath Alfred’s feet, but as he left the bridge and came into the painful brightness of the grounds proper he began to find beasts. They were not like those outside; he had never seen anything like them in all his years of hunting. As with all beasts there was still the twisted shape of man inside the skin, but these were like large insects with dour faces, eyes bulging behind clumps of ragged hair. He assumed the large gossamer flaps of skin that hung from them were wings of some kind until he found one, alive still, just outside a large doorway.

He almost didn’t recognize it for what it was. The beast was unmoving at first, facing the wall, and all he could see was a large, ruby red sack amidst the blowing snow. Then the thing shuddered, moved away from him, as if ashamed, and he realized it was in fact a creature bloated with blood, stinking with it. Though the ardeo obscured his face, Alfred sneered, disgusted. This was what was left of the Vilebloods, then. Good.

It did not require heavy armament to dispatch. The blade of his holy hammer sliced clean through its spine, then belly. Like a popped tick, it burst, blood gushing forth in a wave across the snow, turning to red slush that stained Alfred nearly to the knee. The fragile skin split itself further beneath its own weight and, as the creature screamed hoarsely, its body fell apart. He frowned deeply as the ichor began to soak through the leather of his boots, already cold.

There was a Hunter, a foreigner, who was the sole reason Alfred had come. He’d been changed of late, and Alfred had noticed it. Slowly, but surely. The Hunter’s scent had changed, a subtle but rich stink coming to bloom in his veins, and his regarding of Alfred as well grew strange and charming, in the way Alfred had come to know meant he was being made fun of. He was no stranger to being made a fool, and he did not like it.

So he’d followed the man, all the way through the woods to the unholy village of Hemwick, where many Vilebloods had once been taken, and burned. Alfred watched him come to the crossing, retrieve a letter from his pocket, and look it over briefly, almost nervously. Alfred had been here many times in the early years, looking for the bridge to the Castle. This was where his brothers had left to, when Logarius had made their holy crusade, so surely the way to follow them was within these ruinous woodlands somewhere, but he had been unlucky and unrewarded. To come here again reminded Alfred of how corruption truly smelled.

The letter was a summons to Cainhurst. Alfred traced the lacy whorls of ink across the page with his thumb, marveling at his sudden turn in fortune while the Hunter gagged at his feet. The message sent implied this was not the first time his friend had travelled this way. Alfred was relieved at this, for he had worried that he had struck a tad too hard, but now he could rest assured that his actions had been for the greater good. He still had a passing minute before the time stated on the letter, so he pulled the man over to a hovel and laid him there to choke on his lungs, out of sight. He considered saying something, but for once in his life he could not find anything to talk about. It was a hard thing to say goodbye to someone he had once thought fondly of, but no longer did. The Hunter had been a good companion for a time, but had never been one for conversation, and Alfred realized he knew very little about him with which to construct a eulogy. He could thank him for his bringing Alfred here, he supposed, but the soul he had once known had been driven from the flesh some time prior, replaced with what dirty thing now stared unseeing at the sky through bloodshot eyes. By the time he had come to the conclusion that he had no words to give, the man was already dead anyways.

Alfred had expected a fight when the carriage arrived and was somewhat disappointed when he found there was none to be had. Confused as well, for no carriage he had known of was driven by horse alone, yet here it stood before him, two great coursers stamping the mud and waiting patiently for him to board. He circled the thing several times, prodding at it carefully to see if some trap was concealed. When he went to check the interior he found it difficult to remain cautious while simultaneously shoving his hammer through the doorframe, and ended up tumbling inside in a somewhat sweaty heap only for the doors to shut violently behind him. Sure the trap had been sprung he moved to rage at the windows, but was thrown back again when the horses took off at great speed. The rest of the trip was spent largely with Alfred attempting to seat himself and remain there, wedged between weapon and cushion.

As incredible as one could claim this journey to be, it answered no questions, and when he stumbled from the cab, prepared to strike down whatever creature had just subjected him to it, he found himself ankle deep in snow and alone, without even the horses to answer for their crime. What’s more, there was no sign another had passed here before him, not within years and years. It was one thing to have been summoned, as the Hunter was, and another to be brought here seemingly by luck alone. As discomforted by the idea as he was, Alfred had to consider once again that he was being baited.

Yet, he could not deny himself the chance at a reward so great, for here he was, at the place his brothers of the cloth had vanished to, died at, all those years ago, when he had been but a novice. In holy crusade they had pledged their lives, and this land, unfairly, was their tomb. For that reason alone it could be considered a sacred place, a monument to triumph over the Vilebloods and their defilement of the Good Blood, but another thought had been there, cradled in the petals of his heart for so long. His Master, the sacred martyr, Logarius.

He knew, as was told to him by holy signs, and by the men that washed ashore not quiet dead, that Logarius may live yet, for the Vileblood Queen, Annalise, could not be killed. Surely, then, his dearest Master would remain as well, to keep her sealed away and barren of children, forever prevented from tainting the rest of the world. It was an act of true goodness, a great and pure thing, and to think of it now, as he shook sleet off his coat tails in the doorway, was enough to make him light headed, and he slumped into the frame like a drunk, eyelids fluttering closed. Oh, but to see Him again in all His glory, even if just to put Him to final rest, would surely save Alfred’s soul. He burned. 

The place was disgustingly opulent, albeit dulled by time. His trepidation was momentarily stalled with pleasure at seeing the once grand halls now slick with muck, ragged tapestries white with spider web. More bodies lined the corridors, still a strange mix of new and old. He noted that there were no signs of his fellow Executioners among them, another worrying detail that could mean one of two things. He did not dare hope.

The halls were dim. Even blood once spilt had long dried and flaked, the stain of it faint across rug and stone. On occasion he thought he heard weeping, high and reedy, but could find no source besides the wind through broken windows. It came to be that Alfred himself grew fearful of making sound, not for the wrath of an unseen menace but simply because the wall of silence around him was so heavy, so damp, that any disturbance may trigger an avalanche upon him. Through the dark stairwells he tramped, lone and careful, but never did his passion leave his heart. Years he had spent longing to find this place, and none of his distaste for the Vilebloods and their lifestyle could measure up to the massive well of joy that threatened to overflow from him now.

There was blood on the windows, from the outside. It was old, but not as old as that indoors. Alfred found his way out onto a ledge and looked up, curious, and found its path came from the rooftop, buried in clouds of white. What could have been here, to call battle even now in such a difficult to navigate place? Alfred was a large man, wielding a large weapon, and he had to cling to the railing to make his way to higher ground for fear of being pulled to the stones below by weight alone. When he reached the flat plane of roofing where he could stand without support, he saw something.

The wind was blowing hard, snow cutting across his vision in long strips of blindness, but he could make out the shimmer of color from even where he stood, several hundred yards on. Gold, dim but definite, in the shadows, upwards still. There was no making out what it was from here, nor where exactly it was situated, but the shine of it called upon his memory, and his heart broke into a gallop. He scrambled through the wet slush, slipping dangerously on broken shingles, not made for this kind of dexterity but doing his best, and while he grew closer the form did not become clearer, but his knowledge of what it was became firmer. He slid down the side of a conical tower, clawing at the ground futilely but landing not too far down, on his side. He felt nothing but his heart. There was a ladder, and he climbed it, the rungs of metal biting his palms even through his gloves.

He staggered onto the roof, frost burning in his lungs, and there, at the end of a long flattened ridge, sat his Lord and Master. Alfred knew it was Him as he would know his own face in the mirror, even from this distance and through the snow. The night was dark and the form black, but he could see the long trails of His hair that fell across his shoulder like a veil. Even seated Logarius towered above him, as He should all men, closer to the heavens than any of them. This time Alfred could not contain himself and fell to the ground, breathing hard and fast.

“Oh!” he cried, “Praise the Good Blood!”

His pulse was shaking in his veins and he could not stand, so he crawled, on hand and knee, uncaring of how it soaked his robes. Logarius did not move, head low on His shoulders, as if asleep. Blinded by rapture, Alfred could not see that something was wrong, yet.

“Master, I have come for you!” he said, real tears streaking his cheeks. It was a miracle, nothing less. Even when days had stretched to years he had believed, prayed, that Logarius lived on, somewhere in Cainhurst’s godless confines, seeing over the world as He always had. A few feet away from his Master’s seat he paused, pressing his face to the snow to cool the aching in his face, split by a smile he could not contain.

“I’ve looked so long, for you. I knew, I always did, that you would come back to us.”

He probably looked terrible, red from the cold, tears and snot crystalizing on his face, but he couldn’t think of anything but Him, here, real, so close.

“Master,” he began, shyly looking up. That was when he noticed Logarius had not moved.

Alfred sat up on his knees, wiping his nose on one sleeve.

“Master Logarius,” he said again, still smiling, but something was wrong. His eyebrows furrowed, but he refused to let go.

The man did not shift in His robes, did not cloud the air with breath. Though His hair, dry and white, obscured his face, His hands, gripping the arms of His throne tightly, came into focus for Alfred, rot red and skinned of all fat. His nails had grown long over the bone, black and dead, and the skin had shrunk around bulbous blue vein and tendon. All but the jewels of His vestments had grown dull with weather and age, as though He were a statue clothed in vain. Alfred’s chest drew tight, so tight he could not breathe, could not pump blood to his brain. He shuffled forwards, arms outstretched.

“I know I am late, so very late,” he said, a chuckle quivering in his throat, “but I never paused in my quest, I promise you. I never ceased in my prayer, never let my thoughts stray from your safe return.”

Logarius did not respond.

“But- but I did know that you may still be required to keep watch here! I knew you would remain as a blessed anchor for us, defending us from the evils here if they could be contained no other way. After all this time, I thought, I thought I could relieve you, finally canonize you as…”

He choked. To be a martyr one must die. He had known this all along. He had pictured it as occurring in glorious battle, the streets painted with blood, Logarius the victor laying Himself down to rest with satisfaction. He had pictured Logarius growing old, teaching many for long, long years, surrounded by His beloved protégés in a bed of silk, passing on some great words that filled them all with light before He left. He had imagined, always, being there.

Never like this, never alone, mummified, in the heart of the Vileblood homeland.

Alfred sucked in a great gasp of air, faint.

“I- I have failed you, haven’t I?”

He laughed, and he was crying again, and he could not move, for if he moved he would have to make a choice, to leave or to stay, to allow this moment to become real.

Years passed in his soul. His skin grew sallow, his eyes blind. One of his hands just reached Logarius’s leg, bone thin, grazing the tips of his fingers down the ragged wool of His pant leg. Ice creaked along where he touched. Then cracked. Then, Logarius stirred.

A great moan echoed through His body, like wind through a field, rattling the long stalks of grass. Alfred fell away as if burned. Logarius twitched, snow falling from His shoulders, His bone and sinew grinding together as it moved for the first time in a long time. Laboriously He broke from His position, each movement showering hail around Him until He stood above Alfred, bringing His scythe to rest in both hands. His face gazed down at his disciple, little more than leather stretched across a grinning skull, and His teeth parted with ragged breath.

Alfred grasped at his own chest, as if trying to dig out his heart, unable to take the emotional strain. To have found Him, then lost Him, then had Him returned again in such a short time pulled him to his limits, and his vision swayed. There was nothing in this world more beautiful than Him. Even like this He radiated power, glory. Alfred fell to his Master’s feet and kissed them repeatedly.

“Master, Master!”

He did not see the blow coming, even so close to His feet as he was, so the kick sent him flying back across the roof. Once he had come to a stop, laying on his back, Alfred tried to comprehend his situation. He’d been struck in the side, just under his chest, and at least two of his ribs were cracked – he’d heard them. The sky was above him, and snow was falling in his eyes. Footsteps, slow and heavy, approached.

He sat up quickly, ignoring how pain blackened his vision for a moment, reaching out. Logarius gripped his scythe tightly, a venomous wheeze hissing between His teeth.

“What have I done!” Alfred cried, horror clogging his veins. It was not the idea of being killed by his master that haunted him; indeed, he had always prayed it would be the way his life ended. But Logarius was trapped here so long, surely in support of His Church. There was no possible way He could desire the repel His own dear Executioners, no way He would have remained here due to sympathy for the vile beasts inside. Alfred could not conceive of it. And yet he did.

“Master! Please, I am only here to help!”

Logarius did not hesitate, plodding closer. One of His hands broke from its hold, beginning to draw an arcane glow. Alfred stumbled upright, holding himself around the waist to stay lucid and taking a few steps forwards.

“I know I am a sinner,” he said, “I know I am not worthy of your love, but, but I beg an answer of you, please!”

Standing before him, Logarius’s hand lowered. Though He had not yet even cast His power fourth, the proximity split Alfred’s head with pain. Squinting into the light, Alfred grabbed Logarius’s robes, a blasphemous act in and of itself, but he could not stop, so desperate for validation of some kind.

“Please spare some words for your lowly devoted Alfred!”

Something he said must have been the right thing, because he did not find himself dead within the next moment. He could not open his eyes against the agony, but he clung close, so closely he could feel the shape of his Master’s leg, withered but strong.

“I am willing to perish by your hand, honored by it, if that is truly what you wish,” he continued through ground teeth, “I will lay my neck bare for you, I will, but please, please!”

The pain faded. Alfred let out a long breath, steadying his brain, which felt like jelly sloshing inside his skull. He was about to look up when a weight descended upon the top of his head. He cringed, not quite a flinch, but the touch was unexpectedly gentle.

“Ah?” he said. What else could he say, when this was the first touch from His Holiness Alfred had ever felt in such an intimate manner. Regardless of their position, he shed the context easily just to revel in how blessed he was to experience this before death.

His fingers, each as long as Alfred’s entire hand, threaded through his hair, jagged nails catching the curls. Smoothly the touch descended to brush rough knuckles along his cheek, through his wildly grown whiskers, feeling the cut of his jaw. Alfred’s eyes flew open but he could not bring himself to move, meet His face just yet. Logarius’s thumb passed his brow, the shape of his nose, before pressing carefully to his loosened lips, enough that Alfred could feel the horrible softness of what little meat was left along His bones squash flat, but all he could do was try not to keel over with pleasure. There seemed to be no blood left for his head, all of it flaming in his breast, trying to suffocate his lungs. Logarius grunted softly, and Alfred tentatively turned his gaze skyward.

He had no eyes, no nose, lips and ears destroyed by time. The red muscle that had once been hidden was dry and lifeless, but twitched almost imperceptibly as He observed him, and Alfred knew all at once what had happened. His clothing was soaked with the blood of the lickers, doused in the scent of beasts and Vilebloods alike. What arcane senses his Master still retained that gave Him direction had not known him. The hand upon him curved to cup his face gently, now, as master to dog.

“Yes, Master, it is Alfred, just dear foolish Alfred!”

As much as he longed to reach up and take His hand within his own, Alfred resisted, terrified of the strength of his feelings. Instead he kept his hungry fingers balled tight in His robe, shaking with adrenalin. There was no expression to be made with what was left of his Master’s face, but Logarius’s posture relaxed, and Alfred preened.

“Oh, thank the Good Blood!”

Logarius wheezed, heat clouding from His hollow cheeks about His face. The ice along His skin cracked as He stood upright once again and turned, as swiftly as He had come, back to His throne. Alfred gasped out, spirit drawn from his lungs as the space between them grew and he lurched forwards to grasp at the back of His robes, suddenly desperate. Unnoticing or uncaring, Logarius strode back through the snow, His great steps rumbling through the loose shingles, until He reached His seat and, with painful stiffness, sat upon it. Alfred stood a few paces back, smile strained.

“Master?”

With a deep, bone rattling sigh, Logarius settled down, and looked as He had when Alfred had arrived.

He was tired. The amount of strength it must take, in the state He was in, to protect this spot, Alfred could hardly comprehend. Of course He had none to spare on Alfred’s silly need for closure. But Alfred had not come here simply to see Him, though to lay his eyes upon such radiance again was a prayer he had long held in his heart.

“The blood,” said Alfred, digging around in his bag, “I understand, you’ve been here so long.”

Logarius did not move.

“I brought some with me, from the Saints,” he rambled, pulling out a syringe. The needle was fresh, and he tugged at Logarius’s cold fingers, trying to press it into His unyielding palm.

“Please, Master.”

Growing somewhat frantic, Alfred tugged harder. Logarius did not resist him, but the dead weight of His palm was great enough that he could make no significant movement on it. Alfred stood to Logarius shoulder when the man was seated; he could not clearly reach the veins of His arm, still hard and black beneath His mummified skin. Before his muddled mind could process what he was doing, Alfred gripped the arm of the chair and swung up onto Logarius’s lap. His cheeks stung, teeth tearing through the dry skin of his lip nervously.

“I’m sorry, I’ll just,” his hands hovered over His bare arm, quite suddenly aware of his position. Logarius’s thighs, shrunken by rot, were solid as stone beneath him. Through his bangs he again tried to catch the eyes that were no longer there. There was no reaction to his blasphemy, as if he weren’t there at all. With a soft shudder, Alfred took His wrist in hand.

In life, Logarius’s skin had been a pure, pearly white. While Alfred had seen Pthumerians bleed before, and knew they shared the same red blood, under the skin it always looked black, like veins in marble. When he pressed the needle to his Master’s flesh, it took some force to break through, so that he almost found himself straining, and then, like the skin of a sausage, it gave all at once and he pushed it in so quickly that it glanced off bone. Alfred wanted to apologize again but his throat had closed up, and Logarius still did not move. He squeezed down on the plunger and breathed hot clouds from his nose.

There was no way this meager amount of blood would be enough. The vials he had brought were hardly sufficient to heal himself, had it come to that, but Alfred had not been prepared to find Him in such a state. He snuffled a bit, still swallowing tears that continued to be teased out by the wind’s bite. A deep, almost purple glow spread from the injection site, mapping dead tunnels that twisted through his Master’s bone and sinew. His thumb twitched, but naught else. Alfred lost sight of the trail beneath His sleeve.

“I have more,” he said quickly, “only some, but it will help, I promise, I think, it will.”

He drew back the needle and pushed it through the nipple of another vial quickly, the hole it had bored too dry to bleed. Following his tracks, the second injection came easier, and through his broken vision Alfred was sure he could see a softness returning to the skin, only just. He laughed a little and was reminded of the blow to his chest when a sharp pain stung him in retaliation. It didn’t matter. He bit back his grimace and looked to Logarius again for any sign of life.

He must have felt the Good Blood, but He did nothing. Returned to waiting, eternal, for a true threat to approach. Alfred had sat close to Him before, not like this but near enough, peering at the words on calfskin pages of old books in candle light, when the letters were still new and strange in his fingers. He’d been so stupid then, not even a man of the church like the others Logarius had drawn in, just a poor boy with a desire to serve, but he’d been welcomed anyways. They had done so much for him, to teach him and make him one of their own. Lacking purpose, he had been worse than dead, but Logarius had saved him. Nothing he could do would ever repay what had been done for him, but Alfred could not let His kindness be wasted.

“Is it the cold?” he asked, standing up on his knees to lean into His chest, only just to below His chin, not daring to reach His face level.

“Blood’s slowest when it’s cold,” he continued, to no one, for He surely already knew this, “I can make it warmer.”

Having already given what he could, Alfred had no choice but to lend his heat to what was already crawling thru his Master’s skin. Boldly, more so than he would ever have been with a clear head, he came close to His chest, carefully spreading his arms out and wrapping them as far around His sides as he could. The whole time his gaze flickered between Logarius’s face and chest, as if expecting retaliation, until he could see Him no more behind the folds of His robe, for Alfred had met Him chest to chest. Dreamlike, he brought his ear to the hard plate of Logarius’s sternum, cold beads pressing into his cheek, and listened. The wind was loud but he could swear there was something else, something inside, moving.

New mothers often swaddled the baby close, between their breasts, until their heartbeats came together. Alfred, in his youth, saw his brothers sleeping, his mother’s eyes heavy and calm. Now, he searched within his Master’s ribcage, pushing closer and closer, his own heart so heavy in his chest, reaching out, and he knew what it was like again, even though he couldn’t remember it. It was there, somewhere, deep, and he rose up higher, the bristles of Logarius’s beard scratching his sore face, until his knees ached from the awkward position he had crouched in.

“Master,” he said, eyes closed, “can you feel it? Is it working?”

He strained to feel His answer. Logarius did not move.

“Oh,” Alfred moaned weakly, sinking back down again. It was not a sound of defeat. With his cloak around him, and Logarius before him, some heat had begun to blossom. Alfred pushed against Him again, determined, still listening. This was how he noticed the warmth came from himself. Beneath heavy layers of clothing, something stirred.

Holding close, breathing, Alfred bit his lip. He did not stop. He could hear Him, moving, under ice, just barely. Little cracks in dead blood, warming. Alfred slid down, letting his bottom come to rest fully in Logarius’s lap, his thighs opening around enormous hips. As small as he was beside Him, Alfred looked like a doll, ragged and splayed. His hands came back around to the front of his Master’s chest, clutching the fabric carefully. His ribs were stark, cold to the touch. Time had worn the fabric down thin, and Alfred could feel the shapes he had long imagined in their true manifestation.

“Forgive me,” he muttered, mouth turning up at the corners shyly, “I’ll have you right as rain soon. Let your Alfred take care of you.”

With their closeness returned the giddiness he had felt upon first entering the castle grounds, the weight of salvation upon his shoulders once again. He was freed from the burden of inaction, patience having finally gifted him agency to complete his quest. So long had he waited that it felt unreal to be here now, as he had dreamt it so many times before, and as in his dreams Alfred was struck with a strange boldness. While his hands did not cross the line below Logarius’s silk belt, his hips angled themselves forwards, just enough to let his groin find the dip in Logarius’s pelvis above his own. His size made it difficult to match them together, but even through his skirts Alfred could feel Him, the mound of what lay beneath just below his reach.

There was no sin in the worship of a true saint. Redoubling his efforts, Alfred let his entire body slide up against his Master’s, heart throbbing. It was a full body exercise, and by the fourth or fifth pull he found water seeping through his tunic as the ice between them melted.

“Oh, oh dear,” he laughed nervously, but Logarius did not complain. In the cavity between their bodies, where Alfred’s clothing blocked the snow from falling, he pushed the flat of his palms. His Master’s bones nipped at him like cold stone, his pelvis pronounced, hidden in the wrinkles of his vestments. Alfred could feel the outline of the drawstring to His pants and his Adam’s apple ached.

“That’s better, isn’t it?”

He nuzzled his damp scalp into Logarius’s breast bone, trying to tease out His old scent. For months, when He’d left, Alfred had lay on His robes, in secret, the rest of those who remained too kind to pry him from his grief. He would never forget that smell, but there was none of it left now, and He was so petrified with time that not even the stink of rot remained. It could return, though, with care. Alfred was so hard inside his trousers, his prick feeling small and insignificant against Logarius’s broad waist. He ground into Him with a little sigh, listening. 

“Do you need more, Master?”

Shuddering fully, Alfred twitched his hips downwards, feeling for what he knew lay below, delighted when his ass just barely rode the form of His sex, limp beneath the layers.

“You’ll let me warm you, yes? You’ll let your dear servant give you back your blood?”

Logarius did not respond, but He also did not reproach. Alfred sat himself down soundly and wriggled as low as he could, until he could see as well as feel the faint outline of His intimates. Snowflakes sewed his eyelashes shut, making it hard to understand his Master’s features when he peered between them.

“Yes, I’ll heal you up. That’s right. I will.”

There was much less hesitation in his movements now as he cupped the bulge of His cock. While likely typical for His proportion, to Alfred He was massive, taking both hands to hold and then some. Alfred cooed soothingly, shifting a bit as the wide spread of his legs began to ache. He was so excited he felt sick, his body so exhausted by the stress that it strangled itself to keep his blood pumping.

He refocused his efforts. Even in this state, he would bring Him to life, work the good blood through His veins until it moved on its own. The barriers between them complicated things, and he found his nerves fraying again as the tender massage of his hands seemed to illicit little result.

“Pardon me, pardon.”

Peeling the wet gold of His skirt aside, he fumbled with frustratingly numb fingertips at the waistband. When he pulled His pants away from His body the fabric took some skin with it, the two having almost melded in mummification at the tightest points of contact. Hissing apologies he slid his hands down past the rim and down His cold stomach, finding the flesh more forgiving here, almost soft, but still dead, like book leather. Once he would have marveled at the crisscross of scars across His midsection, traced each and wondered which war had wrought them, but now they were indistinguishable from the cracking ridges of dead skin that had formed from each and every wrinkle as the fat melted away and the earth drew His meat down towards it.

In truth, Alfred had not seen much of His skin in life either, only His hands and wrists, lined with age, and perhaps an ankle between the line of pant and boot. The most precious memory of His body, one Alfred had held in his mind every night since it happened, was when He had asked, with good humor, if young Alfred could assist in braiding back His hair, for the swelling in His fingers made some mornings more difficult than others. Even when He was seated, Alfred, only a child then, had to stand upon a stool, running His locks between his inexperienced fingers to form wide plaits. His hair was thick and tough, like the mane of a horse, but it shone like quicksilver in the low light. When he was done, it struck him how easily his Master had bared to him the nape of His neck. It had been difficult to keep the tears from his eyes even then.

There may have been hair crowning his groin once, but it had since been shed as the skin shriveled. Alfred circled his fingers halfway around His cock and stroked. Death had passed over all of Him, and He felt dry and uncanny, but Alfred could not conceive of being repulsed. Leaning all his weight against his Master through his head and shoulder, he began to massage him with both hands and stared into the dark space between them.

“There we are,” he hummed.

Logarius was large, and at this angle Alfred quickly found himself growing uncomfortable. His breath billowed back against his own face as hot steam. Beneath his fingers, he felt a thrumming, not quite a pulse. With some labor he pulled all the way to the head, exposed as the foreskin had shrunk back, and he gasped an unsteady laugh at the sheer size of it. He was practically doubled over trying to reach, but it felt so good. It felt right. He rubbed his cheek against Logarius’s stomach, salivating. Very carefully he pulled His cock out the waistband of his trousers, the flesh still stiff and unyielding due to frost. As an extremity, it had blackened and shriveled, but Logarius had either kept enough life in himself or the blood was working as intended, for He was still malleable enough to get the job done. Once released, Alfred laid Him along his lap, cradled between his thighs.

The size was impressive beside his own nervous dick straining through his pant leg. Not once did he allow himself time to question his actions. Without modesty, Alfred again wrapped his hands around His shaft till the fingertips met and began his work in earnest. Logarius’s skin was unkind, raw. The friction helped to warm it, but His cock was still tacky and clung to his fingers. It took several minutes of tender caressing for the skin to loosen some, making his task only slightly easier. Something that was not quite blood stuck to him and darkened his palms.

Alfred cooed happily when he felt an unmistakable pulse beneath his fingers. It was not that of a heartbeat but still a movement, a twitch, that was not from his own manipulations. A little pride bubbled up inside him and he allowed a glance at his Master’s face, but there was nothing there to congratulate him. Sinful, really, to have expected as much. He stroked His dick faster, shifting his thighs to alleviate his own throbbing hardness. It was difficult to control himself, his cock painfully trapped in his pants, pulsing dizzily. By now Logarius’s own sex was limber enough for him to position it erect against his belly, though it still lacked any kind of positive hardness not induced by cold. Even like this his phallus was massive compared to a human being, nearly reaching from Alfred’s groin to his breast, and the realization shot a hot shock through him, like pleasurable impalement with a hot pike.

The understanding was a fracture in Alfred’s brain, one that kept his desire to fully realize the idea from his desperation to consider himself pure and chaste. Had he the chance to take this cock inside him, on some dusky evening between the two of them, it would have ruined him, destroyed his insides. Alfred’s thighs clenched around Logarius, a wave of disproportionate arousal boiling over inside his heart. What a lewd and awful idea, how evil of him, and he had to stop moving for a moment because he was on the cusp of cumming into his trousers. He gasped, haggard, and looked up into Logarius’s shadowed face with misty eyes.

“I-I’m sorry, Master!”

As if Logarius knew what he meant, Alfred pleaded for forgiveness.

“I know I am a sinner, I know.”

His hips gingerly pressed up against Logarius’s cock, grinding them together in small circles. One shaking hand broke away to grope behind himself.

“When my task is done, and you are free, I will accept any and all punishments,” he said, sliding his hand, still sticky with death, beneath the layers of fabric covering his own flesh, “you may crush me, kill me, I will accept it, but forgive me now, for I am so weak.”

With less to hold himself up, he found himself pressed hard to Logarius’s belly, his cheek pressed flat to the unyielding cold that still clung like a skin. Inside his trousers, though, Alfred’s body was sweltering, and his hand slid down the crack of his buttocks easily.

“Do you feel good, Master?”

Alfred rubbed across his hole roughly, not having the time or patience for care. He was still bumping his hips against Logarius’s cock, and that took much more work to keep gentle, for a saint deserved gentleness, but he, Alfred, did not. He did not need it either, because he was far more experienced in this way than any decent young man should have been, and when he sunk one finger inside himself, even dry, the burn hardly registered, only the pleasure as he rubbed eagerly. His ass was hungry, even now, sucking in his fingers with hot lust, so vastly different from the temperature outside that it hurt his joints. He could have taken the time to wet himself, made the slide a little easier, but he didn’t have time, for his Master’s needs came first, and at this angle there was little he could do anyways besides wriggle in a second finger and search out his prostate.

Logarius’s cock flopped back against His belly as Alfred strained forward, supported between them only by Alfred’s insistent hips. Steam rose from his face as he panted without control, his still clothed dick rubbing along the underside of his Master’s at such an angle that he could really feel the thick ridge of artery along the underside weigh upon him. His fingers, awkwardly twisted behind him, relentlessly pushed against his insides, desperate for more of the fantasy, of the pleasure.

“You will be so happy, to see what we have done,” he slurred, rocking his hips, “how we have cleaned the streets from all Vileblood scum, just like you taught us!”

In his mania he considered taking Him into his mouth, the black head of His cock almost a size he could manage, but Alfred could not bend low enough to attempt it. It was probably for the better, as he could not stop his throat from gushing with words of praise, of love, of worship, tumbling down his furry chin and spilling into nonsense as he grew more and more affected by his touches. Though it was wrong, Alfred had penetrated himself before, in his weaker moments, had trained his body to know the feeling of passions enflamed. Though he had been unaware of it until moments prior, his body had been open and wanting when he’d put his fingers to it, his prostate swollen and tender, needing affection, and for one blissful instance of total honestly with himself Alfred allowed his mind to conjure the image of his Master Logarius being the one to touch him, His wizened fingers twice the size of any human man’s, pushing in deep and hard and without mercy, for he deserved none.

With a sound torn between a sob and a moan, Alfred came, his cock pulsing jism down his trouser leg even as he continued to fuck himself back into his hand, wringing every last ounce of ecstasy from himself with a brutality that would have him sore for days after.

“Master!” he cried, ecstatic, anguished, alive with holy light, “Oh, Master, Master, thank you!”

And he slumped into His chest in exhaustion, finally withdrawing his arms both to huddle close to His stoic form, feeding upon His strength. His heart beat had risen to ring in his ears so loudly that he was deafened by it, and his skull was spinning in time. It was not for several long minutes that his mind returned to him, and with it the realization of what he had done. Yet still Alfred could not find himself to be regretful, because there was nothing else he needed, nothing but what encircled him now.

Logarius remained unmoving. When he managed to peel himself away, sticky and cold, Alfred saw His cock still limp between his legs, fallen to the side slightly in the violent fervor of his orgasm. It had not worked. Logarius was still dead.

No, He wasn’t dead. Alfred had seen Him move, heard Him breathe, felt His heartbeat. He was not dead. Though He had not become hard, He was alive. It just had not been enough. Alfred’s smile grew tight. He had done a poor job, surely. One of Logarius’s pendants, a holy thing, constructed by man small craftsmen’s hands, encrusted with jewels found deep below Yharnam, hung before Alfred’s face, and he could see the faint reflection of a man within the dark sapphire. His hair was streaked with sweat and condensation across his brow, tangled and ugly. His eyes were ringed with red bags. Bile lurched in his stomach.

_It’s me, he realized, deep in there, somewhere. It’s just me. I am the only one here._

No, no. Logarius’s bones creaked and groaned in the cold. Strong, a pillar of light, warm and alive and real and here, reward for all Alfred had done, the lives he had lost. Alfred, His dedicated servant, was never alone.

“I, I am sorry, Master,” he said, still breathing hard, “I neglected you in favor of my own needs.”

With a little shake of his head, scattering snowflakes, Alfred chided himself, slipping his gloves back on.

“I am not without a second plan, however! I know you need more blood. I know it. And you cannot leave, can you, not until she is gone?”

Reverently he took His cock in hand again, not letting his dejection over failure to titillate stop him from giving it another gentle stroke before he put it away, nice and safe within His vestments again.

“Then I will bring you blood,” he said, “more blood than ever. You’ll be so proud of your little Alfred, if I do, won’t you?”

He beamed up into Logarius’s empty face, sliding himself back off the throne as a child from an adult’s chair.

“I will return then, swiftly, I promise!”

As he spoke, his eyes glanced to the doorway behind them both, lit with flame in the dark night despite the lashing of the wind. Yes, more blood was all it would take. More blood and more warmth. Like a mother he would nurture his Master, feed him, bring life back to his flesh. It would be so easy, he was sure, once he had the materials. So he stood, fixing himself briefly, cum freezing to his thigh, and started towards the castle once again, the solid gold of his ardeo keeping the world from seeing the blindness in his eyes.  
  



End file.
